Blood Stained and Lettered
by Rendered Reversed
Summary: In which Harry writes the last pieces of his life away, unknowing of who he is writing to. LV/HP, LETTER FIC with a twist and rip; now with Alternate Endings!
1. Page By Page

**Warnings: **Possible OOC, implied SLASH pairing if you squint, Non-graphic Character Abuse, Non-graphic Character Death, Letter-plot cliche with a twist and rip_  
_

**Pairing: **implied LV/HP if you squint

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter, obviously. If I did, the series wouldn't be done right now and the pairing would be LV-TMR/HP.

* * *

_**T**o whoever obtains this letter,_

_Maybe this was a stupid idea. Maybe I'm just being an impulsive teenager… I don't know. But Hedwig does; my girl will always get my letters to who they're meant for. So I'm trusting her with this—whatever this is._

_I know I'm going to die eventually. A lot earlier than the rest of my classmates. I just don't know how._

_It's strange, isn't it? The Boy-Who-Lived, destined to die, whether it be at the hand of the person he destroyed or the very people who "raised" him. I just don't know anymore. Nothing makes sense. If I'm going to die, why can't I just be a Gryffindor about it…?_

_My name is Harry James Potter. I was born on the thirty first of July, 1980, and I am going to die._

_You probably know me. If you don't, you don't. Hell if I know where Hedwig is sending this…_

_If I make it through this summer, and through the next school year, I'll most likely be dead the next. My uncle—he—… These days, he's always so angry at me. Well, he's always been, really, but recently… I just… I thought things would get less violent as I grew older—as the Order began to try and protect me more._

_I was wrong. I should've been used to being wrong, but still…_

_You know what, this is a stupid idea. I should've never written anything—and I shouldn't send this either—but Hedwig's here looking insistent that I give her _something_ to send off, and I've always been a sucker for my owl…_

_Nothing will change, even if you're Lord-bloody-Voldemort who gets this. _

_I… I… I'm sorry for burdening you with this, whoever you are._

* * *

_**I** promised I wasn't going to write again. Promised. Swore to myself—but apparently that doesn't mean anything because here I am. Trying to write with a broken wrist and a few broken ribs. Am I failing miserably yet?_

_I probably already have. No one's cared enough to tell me. _

_So… I'm not really sure how this works. Is Hedwig going to send this to a different person? Did my first letter actually go anywhere at all? It must've, since my girl didn't come back with anything, but who knows. I certainly don't. I never got a reply either, from you or whoever got my first letter, which means a) they think that I'm a freak or impersonator or that it was a prank, or b) that it fell off along the way._

_I personally think a) is more likely; Hedwig never fails a delivery. _

_So… uh… here I am. Harry bloody Potter—literally. Don't know what I've been doing and never have, but oh well. _

_Say, do you think you've ever lived? If anyone asked me that, I probably wouldn't know how to reply. Funny huh? The Boy-Who-Lived, not even sure if he'd ever lived… how ironic. But true, really. I'm not sure, not certain, don't even know what the hell living is. Is it to live with a family? To be happy? To love someone? To be loved? _

_I feel like a crumpled up piece of paper. Tossed in some dark corner and'll be forgotten for the next several months… and when they find me, they'll probably smooth me out and look over barely legible writing, take one glance, frown, and crumple me back up again. Throw me out. Put me in the trash. I don't know._

_I never know anymore. What kind of Gryffindor am I, pathetic and cowardly here? I don't have any confidence, don't have any courage… I've always just been Harry. Who've I been kidding when I say I'm a Gryffindor? That person who slew a basilisk, that person who got the Stone, that person who valiantly fought a Hungarian Horntail… _

_Who was that? Certainly not me. I'm just Harry. Always have been. I—_

_I just—Why me, I'm just a—_

_Sorry. I don't know I—_

_Sorry._

* * *

_**I** think if there was one thing I regret most in my life, it was being unable to love properly. Hugs, touches, kisses on the cheek—I can't handle them. They're just—I dunno. They make me nervous._

_If I can't communicate my feelings, how the hell can I know I feel them? _

_But it's terrible—being alone. I never realized how truly lonely I was until I got to Hogwarts. Everyone had their own group of friends, and I was so happy when I met Ron and Hermione—_

_I think I loved them. I'm not sure. What does love feel like? What does it look like? How can I know if I—_

_If I…_

_If I…_

_Well, it could be worse. It could be hailing outside, and I could be out there, locked out because of some trivial task that I probably did correctly but was accused of screwing up _just because_. Instead, I'm inside a musky, dirty room where I only manage to get fresh air through a window that I broke and covered up with a piece of cloth. My only company is a bird—she's actually my very, very best friend and a wonderful friend—, and sooner or later that bird will fly away to deliver this message to someone I don't know._

_If it even goes to anyone._

_It's summer, and that always means good things to everyone else except me. Why am I the exception? Why can't it bring moments of happiness to me too? Why am I alone?_

_Is it my fault that I'm like this?_

…_Well… You know when I said I thought I was going to die soon?_

_I still think that. Maybe this summer. Maybe. I wonder, when my time finally comes, will it be painful? Or will I just fade to black, like the movies I've only heard about? _

_This is probably depressing you… sorry._

* * *

_**I** don't know how this happened, all I know is that I want to keep writing. To you. To whoever gets this. To wherever this letter ends up. I can't say it's therapeutic, but it's more like there's—more like I—_

_I have this thing. It makes me want to do something, even when I physically can't, i.e. when there's probably a couple bones broken and parts of me that are sprained and some big, fat bruises covering me, but that's really besides the point. I have this thing._

_And if I don't do anything, it becomes some sort of an itch in my mind—something I can't scratch but still persistently _there _and forcing me to do _anything_, even if it's ridiculously reckless and stupid and moronic and something that's going to get me killed._

_Yeah. Maybe that's why I ended up in Gryffindor. Because of my thing._

_I just… you never reply, and part of me feels happy about that, but the other part is disappointed whenever I never get a letter back. I mean, you don't have to, if you're reading this, because it's totally alright if you think I'm a creeper and mentally unwell and probably need a trip to St. Mungo's—physically and mentally—I…_

_I'm rambling. I always ramble. I don't know why. I'm stupid._

_This is sort of addicting._

_You never reply, but… well, is it weird how I feel like I know what you're thinking? You're always so calming—even if I don't know if there's a _you _behind everything, and hell maybe I really am insane because I feel _you_, even when I know I shouldn't._

_Because there isn't a _you_, is there? _

_But I think it's almost as if I can know... know exactly when Hedwig arrives to you, wherever you are, and you read the letter, and you finish, and it just gives me this sense of… calm. I'm always so hysteric whenever I write to you, but afterwards I'm just so—_

_I don't even know you. If there is a you. _

_I can't find any words to say what I'm feeling. It's stupid, I'm stupid, but… you never make me feel that way._

_Am I writing to someone? Really?_

_Or have I just gone insane?_

_Either way, this is better than aching all over when I don't do anything. At least I'm given some sense of purpose behind the pain._

…_Sorry. I don't know what to say anymore._

* * *

_**I** think life is messed up. Who the fucking hell cares about the concept of fair? It's stupid. Fair totally contradicts itself by being the definition of the person it's relative to, so there's never really a "fair". It's all a lie—just like the cake is a lie and I don't know why the fuck I'm so angry._

_I'm never angry. I'm always too tired to be angry. But I am now—furious, that is—and it's pissing me off even more._

_Did that even make any sense?_

_Fuck. Screw it. I don't even know why I'm on this subject._

_Fucking Dumbledore. Fucking friends. Fucking Order. They can all go choke on some pumpkin juice or something._

_I wish I could go there. I want to get out of here. I hate it here. Hate it. I—_

_I don't know what I'm feeling anymore. There's anger—loads of that—but I can't separate what's sadness and what's pain and what's fatigue and what's that and what's this and—_

_I feel like I can't breathe properly anymore. _

_Today, I got a letter from my friends. They said I couldn't go to the HQ. I don't even know why I hoped. Don't even know why I asked. Fuck me—I'm so stupid. Why did I have to care? Why did I have to pray? Why did I have to _believe_ like an idiot Gryffindor would?_

_I'm so tired and angry. I don't know anything anymore. I think I'm lonely, but I'm not sure. All I think about is getting out of here, and then this happens. _

_I'm not scared of death. I think I'm wishing for it now. Why does everything have to hurt?_

_Everything except you. I don't know why. You're like—you're—_

_You're fucking amazing. You're probably tired of me saying this, but I don't even know why. It's just—it's like you're part of another universe. You're so _away_ from here, but I'm still able to talk to you, even if you don't answer back, but I can almost feel you and it's weird and strange and fantastic and—_

_It's like you're the only thing that's _right_ now. The only thing I know is there—which is completely ridiculous because I doubt your existence every day—but screw me, right?_

_What do I know?_

_It's—I'm sorry. I've probably weirded you out, if you haven't been weirded out already from my previous letters. _

_You make me feel pathetic. Like I'm Harry. And that's okay—because I _am_ Harry. And I want to be. _

_Sorry. I'm not making any sense._

* * *

_**I**t's going to be my birthday soon. I know I've probably sent you at the very least two dozen of letters and have never gotten a reply… but it makes me wonder, y'know? Who are _you?_ Oh well. It doesn't really matter much. Even if you were Lord-bloody-Voldemort himself, I probably wouldn't mind. _

_Because you've been there for me. Here, there, anywhere. When I'm broken, when I'm angry, when I'm mad… you've been there for all of me. And I appreciate that._

_The Order sent me a letter a couple of days ago. Said I might be able to come back after my birthday. Dunno if they're lying or not—I wouldn't put it past them. I'm tired of hoping—I really am._

_I can't bring myself to care anymore. It's so lonely here…_

_I don't hate them, but I don't love them either. Can't say I'm very fond of them right now. It's like the "first" of everything—you form an attachment to your first wand, your first teacher, your first candy… I'd say first love, but I don't think I've ever experienced it. _

_At one point, I thought I loved a girl named Cho Chang. Now? She was just a pretty face. _

_Anyways, I don't think the Order really cares about what goes on here, as long as I don't leave. How many beatings has it been since I got here? I haven't kept track. Too many times, too many broken bones, too many memories better left forgotten. Not once has the Order done anything._

_I'm tired of being angry at them. I'm tired of being confused. Sometimes I just want to lay here and wait for the world to waste away with time. At least then my body wouldn't ache more than it usually does._

_Sometimes I wish you'd say something to me. A part of me knows you're there, and another part doubts. I know that it's selfish to want that, but I do. You don't have to though. I understand. I don't want to overstep my boundaries—whatever they are. _

_Thank you, by the way, for treating Hedwig well. She always comes back from her flights preened and well fed. She's happy. It makes me smile to see her so enthusiastic. It's—it's been awhile… she's always just been so worried for me, and now there's you, and it's just…_

_I don't know how to describe it. It's almost surreal, but this has been going on long enough so I can tell it's not just some illusion my mind made up to keep me from doing something stupid. _

_Did you change me? Did something monumental happen while I was delirious in a pool of blood? I can't tell, but something about me feels… lighter. I think you did that. Whoever, whatever you are. _

_Thanks._

* * *

_**D**-do you remember my first letter? Where I was so confused, and hesitant, and just a little awkward?_

_Okay, a lot awkward. There you go—I said it._

_Er, well… Yeah. A lot has happened since then, and then when you look back, not much has. I've still got broken bones, some new bruises; still hungry and thirsty and dirty. But then there's you. You're like a blot in the whole painting, though it'd probably be a pretty depressing picture. You were a blot, at first; a blot of color. And then… slowly, you became part of the painting. Whoever was painting this meshed you in._

_You fit. You worked. You were part of everything. But you're still there—as you, whoever you are—and you're still bright and people will always look at you first if they ever see this picture… The only difference is that you're part of it all. _

_You're not some strange, far away figure that'll bring about the Armageddon or something if I don't worship you three times a day._

_But, well, enough of that. I'm—you know, I'm still a teenager, and we're really stupid and can't form our words correctly, right?_

_We're just a big, fat, ugly mess. Take that literally or figuratively, anyway you like._

…_I think I'm dying. Like, really dying._

_Sorry for just throwing that at you._

_It's—it's funny. Sort of. Okay, maybe not, but this whole thing started out with me saying I was going to die. And now I am. And this is probably my last letter to you. _

_But it's okay. Because you'll know. The only thing I regret is that I'm not going to feel you reading this, like I usually do. _

_But that's okay too. I can't have everything—probably never will. Definitely never will, in fact._

_It's hard to write this—sorry, my handwriting is probably even crappier than it usually is—and not just because I'm seeing black spots either._

_I want to see you. Meet you. Talk with you face to face. Will you know me? Will we talk like old friends? Will you scorn me? I want to know it all—the good and the bad. I want to hear the way you speak, whether it be with a strange accent or smooth and British. Whether it be masculine or feminine. Nervous and shy or confident and cocky._

_Please don't regret never replying to me. I—_

_I—_

_Please, I—_

_Sorr—_

_Thank—_

* * *

**A** familiar sound of flapping wings came from the open window. The man sitting behind the desk stood, rising to meet his guest who had visited quite often over the summer. She came through with a beautiful glide, guiding her large wings through the open frame. Her normally pure white, lovely feathers were marred with slight streaks of red; blood, the man knew.

An arm lifted, on which she landed gracefully until the man conjured a perch for her. He watched as the unique owl landed, only eating the barest minimum needed from the food tray after such a long flight.

Hedwig had brought a solemn air with her, and suddenly the man knew. He knew and he dreaded that knowledge, or at least as much as he could with his broken personality.

With pale, bony fingers, Voldemort reached out to gently pry the expected letter from her foot. It came loose immediately, and the crinkled paper was easily unfolded as it usually was. His eyes flew across the page, drinking every single piece of it in, from the barely dotted 'i's to the drips of blood that increased as the letter went on.

_:Massster?: _The sibilant hiss of his loyal companion caused Voldemort to turn his head.

_:Nagini,:_ he greeted back.

They did not speak again for a very long time. All that could be heard was the slight ruffling of Hedwig's feathers.

_:Tomorrow,:_ Voldemort finally hissed, _:the Order will fall. The day after, Hogwartsss. Then, the Minissstry.:_

_:Little Ssserpent,:_ she hissed back, _:isss dead?:_ Nagini rose her body off the ground, tongue flickering towards the blood stained letter. _So much blood_—too much.

The dark lord did not answer her. Instead, he moved around to his desk and hissed out a parseltongue password, opening a drawer that had not seemed to be there before. It was filled with crinkled messages, each carefully preserved, and each in the same messy, chicken-scratch scrawl that spoke of nonexistent childhoods and inexperience with writing using quills. But that was probably all he managed to keep with him—a quill and some paper.

With strange gentleness, Voldemort placed the current letter—the _final_ letter—on top of the rest. As the handwriting continued to degrade as the words continued, dried ink and blood smears caused the last few sentences to be illegible, even for him.

_:Yesss,:_ Voldemort replied to her, _:Harry Potter isss dead. And hisss birthday will be known to the world—even surpasssing the day I was vanquished. July 31__st__ will alssso be known asss the death of Albusss Dumbledore.:_

Nagini's tongue flickered in and out of her mouth as she hissed in contentment. A hand had risen to gently scratch her scales, and she bumped her head against her master's palm as he continued his ministrations.

_:It'sss a sshame,:_ she quietly hissed.

_:Yesss,:_ Voldemort replied, _:It isss.:_

* * *

**H**arry appeared at what seemed to be a white King's Cross Station. It was… odd. He woke up, suddenly feeling all better, with no aches and pains, but he didn't remember falling asleep standing up. Or, well, dying upright, because he was pretty sure he died.

He looked down at himself, expecting blood stains, and instead he found his body was bare. Naked, just as the day he was born. It was odd how that thought didn't make him all too uncomfortable.

On a bench not far from where he stood, Harry saw the glistening silver of something familiar. He strode towards it, bending over slightly to grasp the material. Silky, velvet, thin cloth slid across his fingers, and he immediately identified it. His invisibility cloak.

Would he become invisible right now, if he put it on? Usually it wasn't a question, but now it made him wonder. If he was dead, what use was it to be invisible?

Gently, Harry pulled it around his shoulders, wrapping it about himself. It was… warm. Like a blanket for his soul. Maybe it was.

The sound of wailing met his ears and, startled, he turned his head left and right. There was nothing but whiteness, but the wailing was still there. Harry kneeled, looking under the bench.

A babe, looking unwell and sickly, was curled underneath.

He swallowed. Something felt… familiar about this—this thing. He knew it from somewhere. Carefully, Harry reached out to cradle it, managing to pull it from its spot and hold it against his bare chest. The wailing stopped, and the fetus nuzzled closer.

Yes. He knew what this was. Everything seemed to click into place—the letter, the feelings, Hedwig, everything.

For who better to send his insecurities to but another part of himself?

Harry smiled. He would wait here, in this mysterious white place, until the rest of them came, because he was certain they would.

With slow movements, he climbed onto the bench and laid down flat, adjusting the invisibility cloak to partially wrap around both of them like a cocoon. Perhaps when he woke, Voldemort would be there, ready to accept death together as they should be.

"_And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."_

After all, everything made sense now. He had been condemned to his death the moment Hedwig had left the window with his first letter… and how could they both live separate existences if they were two parts of a whole? Magic did not like the separation of a soul, and horcruxes were never as severed as Harry Potter and Tom Marvolo Riddle had been.

Through time. Through magic.

In the end, all that was left was to come together again.

* * *

**D**eath, Voldemort decided, was strange. He had chosen the path willingly, for one, after his long reign that lasted several hundred years, and had not expected it to come so quickly and easily. It wasn't like falling asleep—where you tossed and turned for hours on end until your mind decided to shut down—no, it was brisk and calm and he had barely felt the difference, like walking down the street. His stride remained steady, paced and smooth, but the scenery about him changed.

And changed it did.

He appeared to be in a train station, King's Cross to be exact. It hadn't changed much from the time he had been there. The surroundings were clean, pure and innocent, and there was no train in sight.

Voldemort felt a tug—a pull on his mind and heart—turning him to a certain direction. Several meters away was a body wrapped in velvet cloth, unmoving with something cradled to its chest. He moved closer, guessing who it was but wanting to make sure.

Harry Potter lay motionless upon a bench, eyes closed with no glasses upon his face, a fetus held close. He knew what it was immediately.

With a pale finger, Voldemort reached out to gently trace what had been the iconic lightning bolt scar. Had it really been so long since he had seen this boy?

_His boy._

Eyelids flickered open, and green met red.

Harry smiled. "Welcome back," he breathily whispered.

"I'm sorry I was late," Voldemort replied.

* * *

**YEAH. SO. THIS IS THE OBLIGATORY LETTER FIC FROM YOURS TRULY.**

**And no, I wasn't procrasinating on The Game to write this. This piece of work was written all today, completely ignoring all of my homework~... which I really need to do. If you haven't checked out The Game yet, it might not be your cup of tea but I ask that you try it? The mood is completely different from this, and it's a non-magic AU c:**

**I've always wanted to try and write a letter fic for this pairing, just because I love them (and they're so cliche but seriously I love them with this pairing) and the good ones that I've read either aren't completed or are and I've read the crap out of them... or they're crack, which I love but sometimes I need some serious LV/HP slash going on.**

**...Which I don't have here. Maybe. This is a one-shot, but I could easily add in some extras 8D.**

**Well. Yeah. Thanks for reading~ Please review and tell me your thoughts? Thanks.**

**Sincerely, **

**-R.R. **


	2. Word By Word

**Warnings: **Possible OOC, implied SLASH and sex between said slash, Non-graphic Character Abuse, Non-graphic Character Death, Letter-plot cliche with a twist and rip_  
_

**Pairing:** LV/HP

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter, obviously. If I did, the series wouldn't be done right now and the pairing would be LV-TMR/HP.

**PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS IS AN ALTERNATE ENDING TO THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER. THIS MEANS THAT ALL OF THE LETTERS ARE HELD VALID, BUT the two scenes at the end DIDN'T happen.**

* * *

_**I** think I'm odd._

_Not that that's something important or anything, but just… I think I'm strange. And not the mentally retarded way either._

_When I was a kid, everyone feared the dark. The dark was a cloak that hid monsters and demons, lying in wait to snatch you up and do unspeakable things to you. Perhaps even eat you. I don't know. All of the other boys at school would never say anything about their fear, but I could see it in their eyes. For all they boasted and lied, the darkness was the amalgamation of all things untouchable and bad. _

_Almost like all of their wildest fears personified… but perhaps it was._

_But it's strange. I… I never feared the dark as a child. I took comfort in it. The darkness loved me, and I loved the darkness. Only 'til Hogwarts did I start rejecting it, as that's what every other student I grew to be friends with did. Eventually I forgot how much the darkness loved me, and how it saved me and comforted me through everything. _

_The darkness had been my comfort zone. And each summer, I would mourn its loss… after all, I abandoned the darkness. What reason did it have to stay with me? So through all of the beatings, through all of the pain, I didn't have the one thing that provided my solstice._

_Only recently have I been reminded of its haunting touch, and only recently have I craved it even more._

_Was I born to love the darkness? Sometimes I don't know._

_You're probably agreeing with my previous statement now. How could someone feel darkness? How could someone love it so obsessively? That person must be strange._

_I suppose I am. But I'm not particularly bothered by it, as long as you don't mind._

_Darkness was never bad, never untouchable to me. It was always within hands' reach, waiting eagerly to become pliant in my grasp. Why is it, then, that when I arrived at Hogwarts, I so eagerly believed that darkness represented the one thing that was my most hated and despised? Why did I believe them when they told me I should loathe the darkness?_

_I loved it. Still do, actually—simply remembering its sweet, calming embrace is like a balm for me through these nights._

_I don't know why I can suddenly feel it again; love it like I do… but does it really matter? They say I was born in the light—to the Light, even—but what raised me was the darkness. How could I have forgotten? How could I have—_

_I don't know. I've been stupid for so long, ignoring things for so long… Things that I shouldn't have. I'm lost, and I feel like I've almost found the way but I'm not quite at that turn yet, even though I know it's up ahead. I just can't tell how far up. _

_Hey… I know I've asked you if you've ever lived before, right? Well… sometimes I wonder if I've ever lived…_ever_. Everything just feels so surreal, like the world is falling away and dripping and melting all into the darkness—no, to form the darkness._

_All of the cruelty is swept away, and all of the love and friendship and happiness go right along with it. The darkness is the only thing that's left. And… that's okay._

_That's okay._

_That's… _okay_._

_You've probably never met someone as weird as me, huh? Talking about all this magical stuff that probably makes no sense—even to the fucking wizarding world. I guess I almost come into tie with Luna Lovegood, and you're hard-pressed to ever find those results. _

_I wonder… will your touch feel like the darkness' too? Will your words warm me just like the darkness? Will the pads of your fingers be hard or soft if you stroke my cheek, just like the darkness did when I was so young I can hardly remember…? Will the way your voice will slide against my ears be tender or jaded? _

…_Will I ever get to know?_

_Is it weird that I think about this a lot? Most definitely, you'll think of me as some weirdo-stalker-creeper person, and if you're still reading this letter it'll probably burned in a fireplace or something—_

_Sorry for rambling. It seems like that's all I can say to you—a bunch of rambling sentences that somehow, just _somehow_, form a thought. My thoughts._

_Am I selfish? To want—_

_Ah… I'm sorry. I shouldn't… No; not even here, in this letter, where I feel so comfortable speaking my thoughts…_

_I'm sorry. It's wrong of me to even—_

_Sorry._

* * *

**V**oldemort gently caressed the slightly crumpled paper, his fingers occasionally tracing a curved path over some smears. _If only…_ There were too many ifs.

Melancholic eyes reread the letter for what was the nth time, drinking in the words even though they were memorized and blazed into his mind. They were Harry's words. Harry, who was no longer of this world… Yes, his words mattered. Never would they be abandoned. They were precious.

He wanted to copy these letters. He had so many of them, but each and every single one meant different things… precious knowledge, but knowledge of the soul. They weren't facts, weren't theories, weren't laws… but it was knowledge. Knowledge that, sadly, would lose their meaning if they were copied. He could not do that. Harry's words belonged on Harry's paper, in Harry's handwriting, smeared with Harry's real blood mixed with ink, deeply soaked in his tundra of emotions and thoughts that went out to his receiver.

Even if it was a perfect cloning—as there certainly were spells to do that, of course—Voldemort would know which was the imitation and which was the real one. Not even magic could flawlessly recreate Harry's writings… they were far too drenched in his soul.

What he planned to do now would use every last bit of letter he had. Every last blood stain, every last word, every last page and piece of paper delivered by that blasted, beautiful Snowy owl. Was it worth it? Could he say the trade was worth these letters disappearing forever?

Certainly, he had memorized each and every one of them; could recite them verbatim even. But even in his memories, he could not remake the drops of blood that had long dried on the paper, nor could he trace every single wrinkle or tear on it.

Was destroying it all worth seeing Harry again? Just a glimpse, just a small, sliver of time…

He could do it. He knew he could. Voldemort was not restrained by such matters of being physically chained to his emotions. But the letters were concrete. They were material, substance that he could hold in his hands. If he did it, concrete they would be no longer.

_Is it worth it?_

And because Voldemort was a very selfish man, he decided it was.

The ritual circle decorated with intricate, complex runes glowed as he placed all of the letters in the center, what suspiciously looked like blood lit to an eerie bright red. A soft chant, in a language universally understood but impossible to speak, resounded through the room. The language of Death, He who carried souls, and He who held the power to open the path… His language.

_Come to me…_

_If you hear my call, come to me…_

_Harry…_

And then they were gone. The letters that had been so neatly stacked in the center of the room spontaneously caught on fire, building and building out of nothing of the paper and air. No matter how great it grew, the flames were contained to one small area—the centermost circle. But then they began to dim, lessening until it was a mere flame. Around it, cupping the small fire in hands, appeared a figure.

Voldemort was acutely aware of his pulse, beating erratically in his throat.

The figure began to grow more defined, more colorful. The Dark Lord could now make out soft, messy hair, a slim neck, slight shoulders, all the way down to shoe-covered feet. He knew who it was—that was the whole point of the ritual. Nevertheless, _nothing_ could ever look the same way as Harry's brilliant green eyes… even before the curse scar that still marked his forehead.

Even after Harry regained shape, he did not move from the circle. Rather, he remained still, looking at the Dark Lord unabashedly and without judgment. His hands continued to hold the flame there, though his stance was neither protective nor particularly sharing. No, he simply stood there and stared. Voldemort could not say that he did differently, either.

But there was a key difference. The latter _knew_ time would be short. He would not be able to keep Harry bound to this realm indefinitely, and since the boy did not seem very inclined to make any reaction at all, he decided that he would have to be the first to speak. But how to start…?

"I received your letters," he finally said. "Every last one of them."

Harry smiled. "I'm glad," he replied, though his voice was nothing above a whisper. "I always wondered if you threw them away or not… but since I'm here _now_, it's quite the meaningless thought, isn't it?"

"It's not," disagreed Voldemort. However, he did not explain. Regardless, Harry seemed to know what he meant by the way his smile grew wider and his eyes just a bit brighter. "Do you want to know what year it is?"

"No," answered the boy. "Time is inconsequential, and fickle at that. How it flows is always constant, and yet perception of it for the human mind is glaringly unreliable. That aside, can I guess that it's been long enough for you to decide to call me?"

A small quirk of Voldemort's lips was the only hint of his amusement at the boy's light mockery, but it was gone in a blink of an eye. "You may," he offered graciously, adding in his own play. "How has the… _other realm_ been for you?"

Harry's soft laughter filled the room. It was pure music to the Dark Lord's ears. "I'm not quite there yet," he said after his chuckles calmed, leaning forward as if to tell a great secret. "But I will be, eventually."

The Dark Lord's eyebrows knitted together in concern. "Not… there yet?"

"I'm afraid not," the boy said, not worried about the situation at all. "Death only takes those who are whole, after all."

"Then there is a way?!" shouted Voldemort desperately. "A way… to bring you back—!"

"No," was Harry's short answer, his gaze turning saddened though accepting. "The dead stay dead. We cannot return to the living to… simply keep living, just like that."

Something caught in the Dark Lord's throat. It felt like he was unable to speak at all, clogged up with emotions he thought he shouldn't have. Couldn't have, almost. He remembered the night the most bloodied of all letters came to him, the feeling that had swelled up inside, but also a great wave of resignation. At the time, he hadn't considered if there was something he could _do_. He let fate run its course for his own gain. And yet… now…

"It's okay," Harry whispered. "It's not your fault. It wasn't, _ever_."

"No… no," murmured Voldemort. "It was I who killed Lily and James Potter, _I_ who forced you into your most hated role, _I _who caused you so much pain—"

"But there were others," cut in the boy. "Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, Dudley… the whole neighborhood was against me. Dumbledore didn't do a thing, and neither did anyone else. My death simply came sooner than it would've—that's all. Time is inconsequential, remember? I don't blame you for what you did."

"I let you die," whispered the Dark Lord. "I, who wished for your death above everything… I simply sat back and left you to your fate, when I very well could've prevented it. I ignored your last and final plea. How could you not find me at fault?"

"I was fated to die eventually. We all are."

"I felt your pain," continued Voldemort as if he had not heard. "I felt it, echoing at the very back of my mind. I felt your need, your _want_, and I felt your death in every letter you wrote. The reason I called you here… tell me, if you will, what you wrote at the very end of your last letter. There are many things that had been rendered illegible by its arrival, but this—this I wish to hear the most, from your very lips if you will."

"If you felt it, then you know," replied the boy.

"Say it, so I know it was not the mere scribbling of a panicked child as he lied on his death bed!"

Harry looked away. "And if it was?"

"Then tell me so as well, because I must know if I made the worst mistake in my entire life," breathily declared the Dark Lord.

He stayed silent for awhile, holding his flame close to him and watching as it hovered in the air. Seconds, then minutes, and perhaps even hours ticked by before anything was attempted to be said. "It matters to you?" asked Harry, so quietly that Voldemort almost thought nothing had been spoken at all. "The words written so long ago, by someone who is gone from this realm?"

"Very much so," he replied.

Harry bit his lip before taking in a shaky breath. "_Please don't regret never replying to me. I always knew, deep inside, that I would never receive a letter in return nor the things that I spoke of in my previous post. Yes, I did truly wonder and hope, but it was, for all intents and purposes, understood to be unrequited._

_I knew that any chances of my letters causing the same feelings in you that they did in me were slim as well, from the very moment Hedwig flew back to me after the first delivery._

_Please, I only wish that this letter causes you no pain. I never meant for that to happen. You were the color, didn't I tell you? In my grey, weary painting, you were my brilliance. I don't want for that to disappear, whether I'm here in this world or not. _

_Sorry for all the sad things I told you—for all of the terrible things. I'm sorry for always being so confused, so unsure of myself; for all the times that I apologized needlessly, uselessly, recklessly for things I might've done or hadn't, this is my final apology. For all the tear stains on every last letter, and for all the blood that had dried as well… I'm sorry. And…_

_Thank you for letting me fall in love with you so deeply and truly. I feared I could never experience it in what I knew would be my short life time. And I know that being able to die—being able to end it all—with my love for you as the only thing I can feel in my heart right now is the best gift fate has ever given me."_

After finishing, Harry allowed silence to rule for a few moments. Then, he stepped forward and began to move out of the ritual circle, for it had never bound him in the first place. He moved to stand before the Dark Lord, who was looking at him with his unreadable, intensive gaze.

Slowly, Harry reached up to gently caress the man's cheek. "I wonder," he whispered softly, "Are you the darkness of my dreams? Will you feel just like it—kind and tender as well as dangerous and dominant?"

Voldemort pulled the boy's body closer to him, wrapping a possessive hand around his waist as well as using his other to hold Harry's own to his cheek. "Stay," he breathed, commanding and desperate all at once.

They both understood that Harry couldn't. It wasn't his place to. The dead were the dead, even the ritual could not break that bind. And yet, just for tonight, Harry was part of the living. _Just for tonight…_

The unspoken words floated between them. Harry stretched upward at the same time as the Dark Lord leaned down, meeting each other halfway for a kiss. Thoughts of the consequences slipped away like sand, falling between fingers to the ground below, ready and willing to be swept away with the waves. And that was exactly what happened.

When morning came, Voldemort knew that his boy was no longer there. He knew he was alone, in his large bed, the only heat in the room. He moved his hand over the spot he knew Harry had been—it was cold. Of course it was.

He also knew what the biggest mistake of his life was. Perhaps it was time to remedy it. The Dark Lord turned to where his wand lied innocently. _Yes… perhaps it is time…_

* * *

**I cried while typing this, no lie. ;~; ALL THE FEELS.**

** I hope this is a more complete (though alternate) ending, and I just want you all to know that what Harry says is really, truly the smudged out lines on his last letter in the previous chapter. If you go back and check, you'll see the beginning words match up too.**

**Thanks a lot for your support, and I don't know whether or not I'll just keep adding alternate endings to this, so sorry about that unreliability. Otherwise, if I get an idea, I get an idea. This has actually been sitting around for awhile, leaving me to play with it and wonder whether or not I'd add in some actual SLASH other than the implied stuff.**

**Also: the letter at the start of this chapter is a cut out of one of the numerous letters that Harry sent. Thought you guys might like that as a teaser ;)**

**So yeah. Thanks a lot! Please tell me what you think in a review if you can :)**

Sincerely,

R.R.


	3. PS: Minute by Minute

**Warnings: **Possible OOC, implied SLASH and sex between said slash, Non-graphic Character Abuse, Non-graphic Character Death, Letter-plot cliche with a twist and rip_  
_

**Pairing:** LV/HP

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter, obviously. If I did, the series wouldn't be done right now and the pairing would be LV-TMR/HP.

**Okay, so this is a CONTINUED ENDING to the previous chapter, technically... but it could also count as a general ALTERNATE ENDING to the first chapter, haha. So there. Two in one.**

* * *

_**T**oday wasn't so bad._

_I—usually I write to you when I've just gone through some humiliating experience, or pain, or hurt, because you can just wipe it all away so easily... but today, today wasn't so bad. I'm actually sort of content. Well, not with the state of the Wizarding World and the fact that I'm held prisoner in a home I'm not welcome in, but in a live-in-the-moment way, today was... okay._

_And it makes me think of things, things that I don't want to think of. It makes me hope, makes me wish for someone to take me away, because it's so much easier to think when you're not being beaten to three inches away from death. I don't like these thoughts, but I'm human. Hard to not wish for life, y'know?_

_I..._

_When a day like this happens, rare and fleeting as it is, I can feel the desire to live, to survive again spring up from deep inside of me. It makes me angry, sometimes, because I know it'd just be easier to hope for death, and no matter what anyone says, I'd prefer the easy way in my situation. I don't deserve any pity, and I probably don't deserve sacrifices either, ironic in the fact that my mother so believed that, but what I'm trying to say is— is—_

_It'd be easier for everyone, I think. If I'm dead and forgotten. If I never existed. If I had died that night._

_But I didn't. And now the Wizarding World is looking at the Boy-Who-Lived with expectations in their eyes, wishing me to vanquish a monster several decades ahead of me in experience._

_I think it's foolish, but on simplistic, easy days like these..._

_I forget, and that tiny speck of hope breaks free._

_It wasn't a relaxing days by any means—I still had to wake up far before my relatives, cook a brilliant breakfast that I received no compliment on, ate some scraps that I was able to sneak, and then received my list of chores. And, despite the fact that I was forced to tend to my Aunt's garden in this ridiculously hot weather, I enjoyed the calm. It was easy, being outside away from my relatives. Sure, the sun made me sweat like hell and the work was exhausting, but I always had a think for the outside, y'know?_

_Anywhere away from my relatives._

_So when I made a flawless dinner, washed the dishes, finished cleaning, and marched up to my room to lock myself in, it was a relief when my Uncle didn't call out to me in demand. It was a relief that no surging anger had broke free today. It was a relief, an enormous weight off of my shoulders, when my relatives went to sleep with not a word to me. Not an angry bark at me. No yelling, no screaming, no hitting, no pain..._

_Today, I was okay._

_And, well, I'm not leaving any blood on this paper, either, so I guess that's a plus on your side. You don't have to try and squint your way through any smudgy words, how's that for once? Well, my handwriting _is_ abysmal, so maybe you do have to stutter through my letter—but hey, no blood!_

_...Sorry, my humor sucks._

_And so I hope, and hope, and hope until something hurts me again. That's sort of what always happens, really. It's stupid, and I should know better—I do, honest!—but my heart doesn't understand that. It just takes another blow, and another, and another, and it makes me feel like I'm invincible and prone to going mad all at the same time. I want these feelings to stop._

_But I also want them to come true._

_How great would it be, to have someone come break me out of my prison? How amazing would it be, if the twins and Ron came and took me away? How wonderful would it be, knowing I could stay somewhere that accepted and loved me?_

_And sometimes, I think death will give me the gist of what I want. But I hear a lot of people think that, and are always proved wrong._

_Though, what do they know? They don't know who I am, really _am_, and they don't know—they don't know—don't—_

_Do _you_ understand? Just the slightest bit? I feel like you know how it is, how hungry sleepless nights hurt so much when others are full, how the pain of being forced to lie on bruises feels, how there are things out there that hurt more than a stubbed toe or a broken fingernail. It makes me feel guiltily happy, too, because that means you know what I'm talking about... however, the fact that those things happened to _you_, of all people, upsets me._

_A lot. You don't deserve the pain, the hurt, the anger and the sorrow. You deserve so much better than that—_

_But the past is the past. Unless you're me, then it's the present, but hey, technicalities, right?_

_Maybe when you hear from me next, it'll be when my heart's taken another beating, and the hope is locked away again. Maybe next time you'll hear me rage, or hear my cries, or embrace my numbness as your own. Maybe next time I'll screw up so much that there won't be a next time—I don't know. Sorry._

_But for as long as this stupid hope stays in me, I can feel it again, the will to live..._

_Sorry for the scattered letter. I'm really just... out of it, I guess._

_I..._

_I..._

_Is it wrong? To want to live, when you're me?_

* * *

**H**e moved with a quick, smooth and flowing glide. He became one with the shadows, one with the darkness that eclipsed the world—_Night_. It was the time of day that the dark lord truly felt content, in his element and omniscient. Night was his domain, his kingdom, his most faithful and loyal. Never would the night betray him, never would it turn him over to traitors and fools. No, he knew how night worked too well for that.

And right now, it understood and obeyed his every whim. It brought him forward; brought him to his destination with a quiet stealth that apparation never could, no matter how powerful he was. It was fast, sly, everything he needed right now. Who needed back up when they had the night in the palm of their hands? No, Voldemort would go about his mission alone.

It was a rescue mission, after all. He would need the silence.

The house he came to was... horribly normal. Two stories, a front lawn, a pathway, a small garden below the windows and probably in the backyard as well, yes... he could see how anyone could overlook this place. But not him. He knew the horrors that lied inside, knew the many, many things that had been told to him in startling details in every letter. Voldemort knew all of this, and yet he could still put aside all of his rage and anger to instead focus on one, single thing.

Harry Potter.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen! But perhaps he had never been truly powerful before—not since his creation of his Horcruxes. And even before then, there had always been something missing. Yes, he had never felt this strange urge to protect before... not like this. Not towards a human being. Not mixed in with emotions differing from pure possessiveness. It gave him a certain strength that he could never remember feeling, and maybe way back then he had even felt that this was weakness. Weakness, for caring about someone other than yourself; weakness for baring yourself out to another; weakness, in all of its entirety, for leaving yourself vulnerable to all of your foes.

But the strength told him it was worth it. And who was he, this Lord of the darkness, to deny the siren's call for even more power? Even more strength?

And if all of this was an excuse to run into that house and steal away the lonely prince, who was to say?

As smooth in transition as the night around him, he glided forward. With one hand out, Voldemort gently caressed the wards that protected the hubble and, with a completely impassive expression, shattered them. He wouldn't need time anyways. Doing this, he would resist the temptation to stay for hours, hearing the muggles scream and beg for mercy—yes, his first priority was Harry. His only priority.

The Lord moved.

It was ridiculously easy to stun the muggle in the kitchen, and then move on to the door he knew Harry lied behind. The smallest bedroom… second from the stairs… When he entered, the scent of blood filled his keen senses, metallic rust being the only thing he could feel for all of two seconds. But then he saw him—saw Harry.

And unknown feelings trilled within his chest.

The wounds and minor scratches were easily closed and healed with a single wave, but he knew the collateral damage was more than what was seen. He would need to get the boy to a healer, to a place where medicines and potions and spells could be administered easily and efficiently. But he could not take the boy away without his permission—no, that simply wouldn't do.

He saw on the ground the quill that Harry had written with, most likely charmed for the ink to never dry or be used up. The chair to the desk was pushed out haphazardly, and he could tell how Harry might've stumbled over to the pathetic excuse for a bed that he slept in. It was… startling, how he could see similarities between this room and his own at the orphanage.

Both held no personal possessions out in the open. Both did not feel like home.

The Lord made his way to the boy's side. With a calm, gentle caress that he thought he would never be able to pull off, Harry was awoken from his pain-induced sleep.

"Who—"he whispered, but then his eyes fluttered fully open and he saw Voldemort.

Surprisingly, the boy weakly smiled instead of curling away in fear. Voldemort knew then that Harry had figured it out—figured out who his letters had been sent to.

"Of… of all people …" Harry hoarsely tried to laugh, but it came out more like a cough.

"Do you want to live?" the Lord finally asked, his first words to the boy since summer had began.

Harry looked at him, growing silent. "I… I don't know…"

"Then will you give me the chance to _make_ you want to live?"

Silence descended upon the darkness. How long it lasted, neither of them knew. Voldemort needed an answer—Harry was lingering far too close to death for his liking, but he couldn't just steal the boy away. He couldn't. It wouldn't be right. For all the letters he sent, all the words he wrote, Harry had been trying to tell his receiver something. Voldemort had gotten the message, so he understood. He understood if this precious, precious boy wanted to die.

But he hoped. He didn't want the sad, lonely, depressing ending. He wanted to fix this—wanted to try and put the shards of it together again. Perhaps if he tried enough, even if the pieces didn't fit _exactly_, they'd still form the shape he wanted.

It took forever, but slowly and surely, Harry nodded.

Voldemort needed no words. He lifted the boy from his death bed—literally—and apparated away.

* * *

**H**arry no longer knew the days that passed, or the weeks, or the months, or the years, for he stayed inside the rich room that Voldemort gave him under his own violation. He didn't feel like a prisoner, nor did he feel the need to commit suicide. Rather, he found himself… content. Voldemort always seemed to make time for him, spending a few hours of the day with him even though Harry was quite sure the man had better things to do rather than watch over him.

Who wouldn't?

Even with some dark thoughts looming over his head, Harry _really was_ content. He wasn't forced to do anything, to behave in a certain way, and he was hardly denied anything that was within reason. He was given food, drink, a warm, soft bed, company, books, parchment, quills, ink, a window with a nice view, and probably free reign in the manor too if he asked for it. But he never did. This period of relaxation, of calm, was soothing to his soul, and so he stayed in the room.

One day in summer, he supposed, for he really never knew the seasons for sure unless he asked—the lands of the manor were enchanted to be whatever Voldemort wished them to be—Harry found himself wondering at the oddities in life as he sat across from said Dark Lord, a book in each of their hands as they passed the hours in relative companionable silence.

But then the spell was broken as Voldemort looked at him, piercing red eyes mixed with something deep and stirring as a question slowly formed. "You have reassured that you are… agreeable here many times, but I find I must ask—are you satisfied, Harry?"

Something stirred inside of him as he heard his name casually spoken from the lips of the man who had tried to kill him so many times—but it was not negative in the least. "I don't know," he answered, probably the most truthful thing he had ever said.

And that was true as well, for the words he had written had never been spoken, and he doubted whether or not Voldemort had truly read them or not. Well, how _was_ one to reply to such a confession, especially from a person who had thought themselves as good as dead? Perhaps he simply didn't know, and wouldn't say anything until Harry himself touched the topic.

Yes, it would be better not to mention it at all. It wasn't like he was going anywhere anyways. Though, nor was his love for this man, however it may seem, as it no longer scorched him from the inside out, but rather stayed as a warm essence that filled his veins whenever the Lord was nearby, and sometimes far.

There was no reason for it to be spoken of, if Voldemort did not wish it. Harry found that he was just fine with anything unrequited, as long as he was able to stay here in this peace with this man.

"Are you sure?" asked Voldemort slowly. "Are you sure that… there isn't anything you wish to say or do?"

Harry frowned, thinking carefully. "…No," he answered. "I can't say I can think of anything."

The Lord sighed, and Harry wondered if he had answered incorrectly. "I find," Voldemort began after some time, "that even as I had promised all those moons ago to _make_ you want to live, that I cannot."

"I don't want to die," Harry supplied earnestly. "If I did, you would've known by now."

Voldemort smiled, full of mirth and wry amusement. "I'm sure," he deadpanned. "But that wasn't what I meant. You are content, that is true, but you do not know if you are satisfied with just that. Continuing on, you do not know whether you want to _live_ either."

"I just told you that I didn't want to die."

"But that isn't the same, is it?" asked the Lord.

Harry paused, wondering how to follow that up. "…I wouldn't say that you are unable to do what you want. Rather, you _are_ able to do _anything_ you set your mind to. In this situation, _I'm_ the problem, aren't I? I don't know what I want—pardon me for how selfish that sounds—and because of that _you_ can't find your next step, right?"

Voldemort closed his book. He rose with the natural grace he had always seemed to have, and made his way over to stand before Harry. With careful, _thoughtful_ movements, he raised his hand to settle upon his companion's cheek.

"Are you sure you don't know what you desire?" the Lord asked, rather uncharacteristically quiet and filled with an unnamed emotion. "I will give you anything you wish for, you know that."

Harry turned away, suddenly afraid of the man seeing the red that began to bloom upon his cheeks. "I—I don't think that receiving a want is what makes one want to live. If that were so, why would others want at all?"

Voldemort chuckled. He leaned down, _closer_, and breathed hotly into Harry's ear. "Indeed. Why _would_ one want at all? But then, tell me, Harry, the how instead of the why. How would one make another want to live?"

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the pleasure and yearning in his heart. "Are you asking rhetorically or in earnest?"

"Perhaps both," replied the Lord. "And perhaps I will gift you the answer that you so unconsciously told me so long ago."

"Oh?"

"Hope," whispered the Lord. "Hope is what will cause the want. But how does one give hope? By giving them a taste of what they desire. For you, so long ago, it was freedom—and now you have obtained it. But what else have you wanted, that you _still_ want, and have not received?"

"Once again, is that in a rhetorical sense or are you just curious?"

"You must confirm it for me, for I fear I do not know in confidence."

"I can't confirm what I don't know," retorted Harry.

And suddenly, the warmth of another body left him. The Lord rose and turned away, and Harry was left with a sinking, disappointed feeling inside of him. Had he said something wrong? Did Voldemort tire of him—of this? Would—

But all of these doubts and miseries were wiped away come the next words he heard.

"Come with me, Harry," motioned the Lord, and Harry did not hesitate in following.

They left the room that had been his comfort for so long, but Voldemort did not take him far. It was almost embarrassing to know that the man's office was simply a few doors away! But curiosity began to overshadow that too as the man hissed out a password in parseltongue.

A small drawer of the only desk in the room slid open, and Voldemort withdrew the first on top.

"I find it troubling that I cannot read the words you've so honestly written to me, no matter what method I try, and I find it the key to your very desires. Will you speak what you've written?"

At first, Harry didn't understand what he meant, but when the Lord turned around and handed him the very last letter he had written, he understood. His face flushed, blood rushing to his cheeks as he merely stood there, letter very carefully held in one hand, eyes cast downward in embarrassment. Had it really come to light so soon…? But Voldemort shouldn't have been able to read it, he had said so himself! And the words were certainly smeared to the point of illegibility. So was it just a guess? A true, genuine question without any hidden meaning?

He wouldn't know unless he looked up and asked the man. But if he did that, then he would have to reply. Mentally, he raced to try and piece together some semblance of an answer, but it always came out wrong and too vague. Really, how was one supposed to tell another of a love confession written for them, during a time of great depression and utter hopelessness—a last ditch effort to try and tell them how they felt?

Harry decided to just wing it. Worst came to worst, he'd be kicked out or something, and then he would simply just… well, die at one point, he supposed. He didn't really know, so he'd probably wing that too, but point was, either way he didn't really have anything to loose—

The burning in his heart said differently, but he nonetheless shoved it aside. Nothing would come of it, so why bother?

He looked up, intent on saying _something_, but Harry found he was too entranced by those red, red eyes looking at him in understanding. He—he _knew_. Voldemort _knew_.

"Tell me, Harry, have I succeeded in my endeavor?"

A hand pulled him close, a gentle caress pulling him forth not only physically but spiritually as well. The letter drifted to the floor, ignored in favor of a kiss.

"Not quite yet," Harry murmured boldly as they parted, "but maybe, a bit of hope for the both of us?"

The Lord smiled. "Anything you wish."


End file.
